No plumber to call
to break the lines loose
to free a year of rain
backed-up, flooding
the UK and Montana,
freezing East.
Helpless as town dogs,
we don’t know
how to fix anything
anymore. No time
to sit and pray,
to meditate the dry
away, or cry.
No other home
but red dirt hills
that never greened.
They don’t know
tomorrow’s zip code
nor do we—exactly
when, or how many
trucks to order.
drycrikjournal 
This is a powerful poem. Sadness at what will come.
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